A car stopped and I got in.
It brought me to a world of dyked farms enclosed by suburbs, petrol stations and arterial roads and scrub copses that turn out to be railway embankments. Rich picking for wild camping and I am now the proud owner of a tarpaulin.
So there was a logic to this.
The tarpaulin came from a builder's lorry I suppose; it carries a logo but I stay dry.
And the buzzard that hunts this busy road next to my camp perches uncomfortably on thin sapling tops and telegraph wires admired by the pigeons.